Bingo
The daughter of the village Maire
Is very fresh and very fair,
A dazzling eyeful;
She throws upon me such a spell
That though my love I dare not tell,
My heart is sighful.
She has the cutest brown caniche,
The French for “poodle” on a leash,
While I have Bingo;
A dog of doubtful pedigree,
Part pug or pom or chow maybe,
But full of stingo.
The daughter of the village Maire
Would like to speak with me, I’ll swear,
In her sweet lingo;
But parlez—vous I find a bore,
For I am British to the core,
And so is Bingo
Yet just to—day as we passed by,
Our two dogs haulted eye to eye,
In friendly poses;
Oh, how I hope to—morrow they
Will wag their tails in merry play,
And rub their noses.
* * * * * * *
The daughter of the village Maire
Today gave me a frigid stare,
My hopes are blighted.
I’ll tell you how it came to pass . . .
Last evening in the Square, alas!
My sweet I sighted;
And as she sauntered with her pet,
Her dainty, her adored Frolette,
I cried: “By Jingo!”
Well, call it chance or call it fate,
I made a dash . . . Too late, too late!
Oh, naughty Bingo!
The daughter of the village Maire
That you’ll forgive me, is my prayer
And also Bingo.
You should have shielded your caniche:
You saw my dog strain on his leash
And like a spring go.
They say that Love will find a way —
It definitely did, that day . . .
Oh, canine noodles!
Now it is only left to me
To wonder —will your offspring be
Poms, pugs or poodles?
Altre opere di Robert W. Service...
